The conquest of Constantinople by the Fourth Crusade
and the founding of the Latin Empire split the remaining possessions of the
Byzantines into two large states, Nikaia and Epiros, and some smaller states. Despite
reduced resources, it was an effective army which rarely lost a battle, beating
the Seljuqs at Antioch in 1211, the Latin Empire at Poimanenon in 1224 and the
Achaian Franks at Pelagonia in 1259. Originally based only on the Anatolian provinces,
it regained Thrace in 1235, Macedonia and Thessaloniki in 1246. The Varangians
were now purely palace guards and no longer went to war, but the Vardariotai
guards originally recruited from Magyar settlers in the Vardar valley did still
take the field. The Latinikon were Frankish knights, now mainly recruited from
Constantinople, the Latin Emperor being poor and Byzantine pay generous.
Tourkopouloi were Christianised Turks. The Skythikon
had originally been recruited from Pechenegs, but were now usually Cumans. They
were not used in a single body, but as detachments scattered through the army.
They were supplemented from 1242 by a mass settlement of Cuman refugees fleeing
from the Mongols. These were given lands in exchange for military service, but
on one occasion deserted to the enemy on the field of battle. Native cavalry
were now mostly reservists called stratiotai holding individual pronoiai,
grants not of land but of its rents. They were thus neither localised
soldier-farmers as in the old Thematic forces, nor feudal lords, but soldiers
who collected their own pay and were called up by the central authorities for
service anywhere in the empire. They were still armoured lancers, but had
reverted to the skirmishing tactics of earlier days.
Until the accession of Theodoros II Laskaris they served only in Anatolia. Their quality was variable, those of the Paphlagonian theme for example being considered good and those of Macedonia bad. The illustrations in the Skylitzes manuscript of around the start of this period shows several bodies of lancers who lack armour. Infantry were now predominantly archers from the Anatolian themes. Peltastai are no longer mentioned, but some archers are depicted with spears and small shields. Camp servants were used to attack the unwalled town of Serres in 1246. Byzantine warships were now lighter and no longer mentioned using Greek Fire.
The restored Byzantine Empire in 1265.
When Pope Innocent III was informed of the sacking of
Constantinople, he understood at once the damage that had been done. Furiously
excommunicating everyone who had taken part, he wondered aloud how the dream of
church unity could ever now occur. How could the Greeks, he wrote to his
legates, ever forgive their Catholic brothers, whose swords still dripped with
Christian blood, and who had betrayed and violated their holiest shrines?
Eastern Christians, he concluded with good reason, now detested Latins more
than dogs.
The new masters of Constantinople, meanwhile, seemed
determined to increase the native resentment. In a hastily cleaned Hagia
Sophia, where a few days before a prostitute had been mockingly perched on the
patriarchal throne, a Latin emperor was crowned, and the feudal arrangements of
the West were forced on the corpse of the Byzantine Empire. The various nobles
were rewarded with large estates, and a patchwork of semi-independent kingdoms
replaced the single authority of the emperor. A crusader knight seized
Macedonia, calling himself the king of Thessaloniki, and another set himself up
as the lord of Athens. Not even in its most advanced decay had the Byzantine
state been as powerless as the Latin one that took its place.
Remarkably enough, given the deplorable state of the
capital, the vast majority of Byzantines in the countryside were reasonably
well off. As the central authority of the emperors had weakened in the years
before the Fourth Crusade, the towns and villages of Byzantium had flourished.
Merchants of the West, the East, and the Islamic world converged in fairs held
throughout the empire, where they displayed exotic wares from as far away as
Russia, India, China, and Africa. The urban population boomed, and since the
corrupt and paralyzed imperial government was unable to collect taxes, the
wealth stayed in private hands. Emperors could no longer afford their lavish
building programs as the treasury dried up, but private citizens could, and the
cities became showpieces for personal fortunes. A new spirit of humanism was in
the air, along with an intellectual curiosity. Byzantine art, which had been
stylized for centuries, became suddenly more lifelike; writers began to depart
from the cluttered, archaic styles of antiquity; and individual patrons of the
arts sponsored vibrant local styles in the frescoes and mosaics of their
villas. The spirit of Byzantium was flowering even as imperial fortunes
declined, and not even the terrible trauma of the Fourth Crusade could dampen
it for long.
Despite the resilience of its culture and economy, the
empire’s power seemed irretrievably lost. Alexius Murtzuphlus had tried to
organize a counteroffensive with his fellow emperor-in-exile Alexius III, but
his idiotic colleague had betrayed him, and the crusaders had flung Murtzuphlus
to his death from the top of the Theodosian column. In remote Trebizond on the
shores of the Black Sea, the grandsons of Andronicus the Terrible declared
themselves the rightful emperors; while at Epirus, the great-grandson of
Alexius Comnenus claimed the same thing. The most powerful and important
fragment of the empire, however, was centered at Nicaea, where the patriarch
crowned Alexius III’s son-in-law Theodore Lascaris as emperor.
As refugees and wealth poured into the Nicene haven of the
Orthodox faith and Byzantine culture, the crusader’s Latin Empire of
Constantinople grew progressively weaker. Within a year, a Bulgarian army had
effectively broken its power, destroying its army, capturing the impotent
emperor, and allowing Theodore Lascaris to reconquer most of northwestern Asia
Minor. Instead of confronting the obvious danger of Nicaea, however, successive
Latin emperors concentrated on extracting wealth from the citizens of
Constantinople, abandoning themselves to the pleasures of palace life.
Only the threat of the Seljuk Turks at their rear prevented
the Nicaean emperors from further exploiting Latin weakness; but in 1242, a
terrifying Mongol horde suddenly appeared, and the situation dramatically
changed. Smashing the Turkish army sent against him, the Mongol khan forced the
Seljuk sultan to become his vassal and extracted a promise of an annual tribute
of horses, hunting dogs, and gold. The Mongol horde seemed poised to descend on
Nicaea next, but it unexpectedly withdrew the next year, leaving the Seljuks
crippled in his wake. To the relieved Byzantines, it seemed as if God had
delivered them from certain destruction, and perhaps even given them a powerful
new ally. Nestorian Christians who had been expelled from the Byzantine Empire
had reached Mongolia in the seventh century, and though the khans had yet to
embrace a major religion, several high-ranking Mongols—including the
daughter-in-law of Genghis Khan—were Christian. In any case, whether they were
well disposed to Christianity or not, the Mongols’ timely attack finally left
Nicaea free to pursue its dream of recapturing Constantinople.
Through careful diplomacy and military displays, Nicaea
slowly built up the pressure on the tottering Latin Empire. By now the crusader
kingdom had virtually shrunk down to Constantinople itself, and the capital
lived under a perpetual shadow of gloom, with its deserted streets and
dilapidated palaces. Its humiliated emperor Baldwin II was so impoverished that
he’d been obliged to sell off the lead from the roof of the imperial
palace—which was now in a tumbledown state of advanced decay—and in his
desperate search for money had even begun to pawn the few relics that had
survived the sack. By 1259, when a dashing young general named Michael
Palaeologus was crowned in Nicaea, Baldwin was barely clinging on to power, and
few doubted the general would recover the city. The only question was when.
Michael VIII Palaiologos
Nicaea was not without its own turmoil. The
thirty-four-year-old Michael Palaeologus had come to power only after the
regent was brutally hacked to death during the funeral service of his
predecessor, but by the time Michael was crowned on Christmas day, his empire
was infinitely more powerful and vibrant than its Latin counterpart. In the
summer of 1261, Michael neutralized the threat of the Venetian navy by signing
a treaty with their archrivals Genoa, and sent his Caesar, Alexius
Strategopoulos, to see how strong Constantinople’s defenses were. When the
Caesar arrived outside the city in July with eight hundred men, some farmers
immediately informed him that the Latin garrison—along with the Venetian
navy—was away attacking an island in the Bosporus. Hardly believing his luck,
Strategopoulos hid until nightfall in a monastery near the Pege Gate, easily
escaping detection by the laconic defenders. Upon discovering a small, unlocked
postern gate nearby, the Caesar sent through a handful of men who quietly
overpowered the guards and opened the main gate. On the morning of July 25,
1261, the Nicaean army poured into the city, shouting at the top of their lungs
and beating their swords against their shields. Emperor Baldwin II was so
terrified by the noise that he left the crown jewels behind, fleeing to the
palace of the Bucoleon, where he was somehow able to find a Venetian ship and
make good his escape. Within hours, it was all over. The Venetian quarter was
burned to the ground, and the returning Venetian navy was too busy rescuing its
loved ones to fight back.
For the Latins inside the city, there was no thought of
resistance, only of panicked flight. Scattering in all directions, they hid in
churches, disguised themselves as monks, and even leaped into the sewers to
avoid detection. When they cautiously emerged, however, they found that there
had been no massacre. The Byzantines had come home not to plunder but to live.
The bedraggled Latins hurried quietly down to the harbors and boarded the
returning Venetian ships, glad that Byzantines had shown more restraint in
victory than their own crusading predecessors.
The incredible news reached Michael Palaeologus where he was
asleep in his tent, nearly two hundred miles away. Refusing to believe that his
forces had captured the city until he had seen Baldwin’s discarded scepter,
Michael hurried to take possession of the capital that he had long dreamed of
but never seen. On August 15, 1261, he solemnly entered through the Golden Gate
and walked to the Hagia Sophia, where he was crowned as Michael VIII. After
fifty-seven years in exile, the Byzantine Empire had come home.
The city that Michael VIII triumphantly entered was a pale
shadow of its former self. Charred and blackened houses stood abandoned on
every corner, still sagging and in ruin from the sack more than five decades
before. Its churches were despoiled and dilapidated, its palaces decayed, and
its treasures dispersed. The formidable Theodosian walls were badly in need of
repair, the imperial harbor was completely unprotected, and the surrounding
countryside was devastated. Its weary citizens had little hope for relief from
a throne that had seen—from Irene in 780 to Alexius Murtzuphlus in 1204—half of
its occupants overthrown. Worst of all, however, the old unity of the Byzantine
world had vanished—the splinters of the empire in Trebizond and Epirus remained
stubbornly independent, sapping the already diminished strength of Byzantium.
The only hope of salvation seemed to be from the West, but the Fourth Crusade
had severely ruptured western relations.
If anyone had a chance of repairing the damage, however, it
was Michael VIII. Not yet forty, he was energetic and vibrant, hiding a fierce
intelligence behind a convivial smile. Boasting an impressive imperial lineage
of no fewer than eleven emperors and three dynasties among his ancestors, he was
well connected, able, and smarter than anyone else around him. His first task
was to restore the city’s shattered morale, and he did so with a whirlwind of
construction, repairing walls and rebuilding churches. In the upper gallery of
the Hagia Sophia, the emperor commissioned a stunning mosaic of Christ flanked
by Mary and John the Baptist—perhaps the finest piece of art that Byzantium
ever produced. A massive chain was stretched across the imperial harbor to
protect it from enemy vessels, and the moats around the land walls were
cleared. Knowing the value of propaganda, the emperor designed a new flag and
sent it fluttering from every parapet and tower in the city. Though the eagle
had been the symbol of the Roman Empire since Gaius Marius had chosen it
thirteen hundred years before, most banners before Michael bore either
Constantine’s cross or the Chi-Rho—the first two Greek letters of Christ’s
name. Now the emperor added a great golden eagle, double-headed with two
crowns—one for the interim capital of Nicaea and one for Constantinople. Those
who saw it could swell with pride and remind themselves that Byzantium had been
a mighty empire embracing two continents, looking both east and west. Perhaps
under the dashing Michael VIII it would be so again. The imperial enemies were
scattered and disunited, and an immediate offensive just might catch them on
their heels.
At the head of his small, battle-hardened army, Michael VIII
had soon pushed back a marauding Bulgarian army and forced the Byzantine despot
of Epirus to submit to the empire. By 1265, he had conquered most of the
Peloponnese from its Latin overlords and even managed to clear the Turks out of
the Meander valley. The next year, however, a new player appeared on the
international stage, and everything was thrown into confusion.
The Norman Kingdom of Sicily had dominated Italian politics
for a long time, but by 1266 its energy was exhausted. Pope Urban IV, wanting a
friendlier hand at its helm, invited Charles of Anjou, the younger brother of
King Louis IX of France, to seize the kingdom. If the pope wanted a neutral
power to his south, however, he could hardly have made a worse choice. Charles
was cruel and grasping, and after beheading his sixteen-year-old opponent in a
public square, he immediately began planning to enlarge his domains. His
schemes were given an unexpected boost when Baldwin II, the exiled and rather
pathetic Latin emperor of Constantinople, offered to give him the Peloponnese
in exchange for help regaining the throne. The delighted Sicilian king
immediately began levying heavy taxes to support the war effort and searching
for allies, forming an anti-Byzantine league with Venice.
Knowing his small army and decrepit navy would stand no
chance against his united enemies, Michael VIII turned to diplomacy, adroitly
managing to keep them at bay. Venice was bought off with greater trading
privileges within the empire, and a few letters hastily written to King Louis
persuaded the French king to restrain his headstrong younger brother. For the
moment, the voracious Charles was forced to sit on his hands, but the French
king died in 1270, and Charles gleefully invaded. Sicilian arms were
irresistible, but once again Michael VIII outthought his opponent. Writing to
the pope, the emperor cleverly dangled the promise of a union of the churches
before the pontiff’s eyes in exchange for bringing Charles to heel.
The ploy worked and Charles was recalled, but Michael was
playing a dangerous game. He was well aware that his subjects would never
accept domination by the hated Roman church, and he couldn’t keep stalling the
pope indefinitely. For three years, the emperor smoothly dodged the papal
representatives; but by 1274, Pope Gregory X got tired of waiting and sent an
ultimatum to Constantinople—either implement the union immediately or face the
consequences. There was little that Michael VIII could do. Asking only that
eastern practices be left alone, he submitted his church to the authority of
the pope.
The firestorm in Constantinople was both unsurprising and
immediate. The patriarch angrily refused to ratify the hated document, and most
of Michael’s subjects felt bitterly betrayed. The emperor had not only
dangerously weakened his throne, but he had also handed the Orthodox powers of
Serbia and Bulgaria the perfect bit of propaganda. Each could now invade
imperial territory at will and claim to be fighting for tradition and truth.
Any such invasion, Michael well knew, would receive dangerous support from his
outraged subjects. But he had removed the justification of papal support from
any future attack by Charles, and that for Michael VIII was worth the price of
popular unrest. In any case, he didn’t intend to sit idly by while his enemies
pounced. When Bulgaria invaded, trying to exploit the weakness, Michael simply
invited the Mongol Golden Horde into Bulgaria. The Mongol advance crippled the
kingdom, dealing Bulgaria a blow from which it never recovered.
Charles of Anjou had been seriously checked, but he wasn’t
beaten yet. If his grand alliance had foundered on Byzantine treachery, then it
must be more solidly rebuilt. Venice was easily seduced. She was always looking
to her own advantage, and the rights Michael VIII had granted to Genoa were
cutting deeply into her profits. A victory for Charles would mean the
banishment of the Genoese upstarts—an irresistible attraction for the Lion of
Saint Mark’s. The only thing restraining Charles was papal displeasure, but the
resourceful king overcame even this seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Pope
Gregory X died in 1276, and through steady interference and intimidation
Charles managed to have a French cardinal elected pope who hated the Byzantines
almost as much as he did. In 1281, the French pope sent a letter to the stunned
Byzantine emperor informing him that he had been excommunicated on the grounds
of his subjects’ continued resistance to Catholicism. The emperor could hardly
believe the news. He had sacrificed his popularity and invited charges of
impiety and betrayal for nothing. Now Venice and Sicily were firmly allied
against him, and they would sail under the papal blessing. Not even the Fourth
Crusade had such support.
Byzantium’s only advantage was Michael VIII. In a brilliant
bit of truly “byzantine” diplomacy, Michael reached out to Peter III of Aragon,
urging him to invade Sicily. Peter was related to the dynasty that Charles of
Anjou had evicted from power and considered Sicily his birthright. And thanks
to vicious taxation and a copious amount of Byzantine gold, anti-French feeling
on the island was at a fever pitch. Now, suggested Michael VIII, would be the
perfect time for the Spanish savior to arrive.
Unaware of the storm that was gathering, Charles of Anjou
left Sicily for the mainland of Italy to put the finishing touches on his army.
In his absence, the island exploded. The revolt known to posterity as the
Sicilian Vespers started innocuously enough on the outskirts of Palermo. As the
bells of the church of Santo Spirito rang to call the faithful to Vespers on
Easter Monday of 1282, an inebriated French soldier tried to seduce a Sicilian
girl. To the outraged onlookers, it was the last straw. These boorish French
had lorded it over them for long enough, growing fat off Sicilian labor. The
enraged mob killed the offending soldier and fanned out through the streets of
Palermo, venting nearly two decades of frustration on anyone with a drop of
French blood. When the sun rose on Tuesday morning, there wasn’t a Frenchman
left alive, and the electrifying news of the revolt sped throughout the island.
By May, French resistance had collapsed, and by the end of August Peter III had
landed and taken possession of Palermo. Charles of Anjou furiously put several
Sicilian ports under siege, but he had abused his former subjects for too long,
and they preferred death to his return. Though he spent the rest of his life
trying to recover the island, he was never successful, and in 1285 he died, a
broken man.
Michael VIII never lived to see the death of his great enemy.
With the threat of western aggression gone, the despot of Epirus was once again
asserting his independence, and the emperor was determined to bring him into
line. The fifty-eight-year-old emperor again led his troops toward battle, but
he had gotten no farther than Thrace when he fell seriously ill. Thinking as
always of his responsibilities, the dying emperor proclaimed his son Andronicus
II to be his successor, and expired quietly in the first days of December.
He had been among Byzantium’s greatest emperors, restoring
its capital and dominating the politics of the Mediterranean. Without him, the
empire would certainly have fallen to Charles of Anjou—or any number of
watching enemies—and the Byzantine light would have been extinguished, its
immense learning dispersed among a West not yet ready to receive it. Instead,
Michael VIII had deftly outmaneuvered his enemies, founding in the process the
longest-lasting dynasty in the history of the Roman Empire. Nearly two hundred
years later, a member of his family would still be sitting on the throne of
Byzantium, fighting the same battle of survival—albeit with much longer odds.
Michael had done what he could to repair the imperial wreckage. He left behind
valuable tools to continue the recovery: a small but disciplined army, a
reasonably full treasury, and a refurbished navy. But for the savior of the
empire, no gratitude awaited. Excommunicated by the pope, he died a heretic to
the Catholic West and a traitor to the Orthodox East. His son buried him without
ceremony or consecration in a simple, unmarked grave. Michael VIII’s affronted
subjects, however, would all too soon have reason to miss him. If Byzantium
looked strong at his death, it was only because his brilliance had made it so.
Without a strong army or reliable allies, its power was now purely diplomatic,
and it needed hands as skillful as Michael’s to guide it. Unfortunately for the
empire, however, few of Michael’s successors would prove worthy of him.
